The Boggart There used to be this boggart in our house. Not a big thing, really; actually quite small. Of course, we didn’t used to see her that way; There was a time when we were the ones that were small. She had a row of teeth for every bit of flesh we bore. She’d bring them out, all neat and sharp and small. One day we stared her down and brought our own teeth out, And the growl that stirred in her throat was small. The night passed without incident. When the sun rose, We found footprints out the door. We thought, “Now who’s small?” I heard she found another house to haunt, Its occupants each Bambi-eyed and small. ** The Truckers It’s a world that shines with sun and sweat In which she wakes and pushes up her sleeves. Whatever comes, her beast is strong and true, And there’s nothing that she and her paint can’t do. And her buddies are just the same: Every day, they alternately push and dance their way Through a world fit for only the bravest. All very much in love, They fit like fingers in a glove. I don’t think I myself would fit; I wasn’t built for the ride. We’re all different, and they understand. But before each adventure, I press each callused hand And pray they find their footing everywhere And in my thoughts and spirit, I am there. ** Noah’s Song O nymph, you gave me to believe The wilderness could take or leave This tongue-tied faun, This fodder for the Good Lord’s funny way. For years he’s greeted every day With this same bitter sentiment: “I wonder where I’ll wash up next?” For years he’s trembled in the shoes of the forsaken. His seams have all been splitting; In the forest, in the meadow, In every spot of sun and shadow, He’s had to strain to keep from breakin,’ But now, he’s bound for solid ground And he don’t want to hear a sound Out of the likes of you. ** The Online Gallery Greedy-Guts has got me by the hair. I keep telling it: “That’s quite enough. You’ve had your time to do your stuff. Settle yourself down for the night. You’ve done your worst, And now I’m fit to burst.” Yet the trays of sweets keep coming, And the champagne corks keep popping, And I keep on succumbing, And the pathos shows no signs of stopping. ** Bedeviled I’ve been told I’m often absent While my body’s in the room. And though I know that’s true of everyone, I get where my critics are coming from. The thing is, I belong to many countries, Each with its own customs, And sometimes I forget which one I’m in, And cannot tell a virtue from a sin. Who am I kidding? I don’t forget. I just don’t really give a shit.
Julia Franklin was born in Cambridge, England, and has had a passion for writing, drawing, and traveling from a tender age. Now a post-bacc at Oakland University, she plans to one day teach elementary education and imbue her students with a love of the arts. She lives with her parents, brother, and lop-eared rabbit. This is her first feature on The Fictional Café.